CHAPTER XIX.

Through the earth there runs a sound Music of green nooks and hills, For Spring, soft-handed, frees the bound Rivers and sweet rills; Trickling, singing, from the fountains, All day long they cheer the mountains.

So the warm streams of the heart Sometimes ’neath the ice grow chill, Till the Spring with kindly art Wakes the sleeping rill, And like the brooks, old loves, new flowing, Stir all fair things to happier growing.

The spring sunshine began to dawn on the waiting world again. The gentle days prolonged themselves, lingering out in long, soft, poetic twilights. Lilias Maxwell had been nearly a year at Mossgray.

And Halbert Graeme began to feel himself in great want of some outlet for his young activity. He said little now about the momentous matter which had brought him to Mossgray, and though he did sometimes complain in his letters to the North that the fortune which it was so very necessary to make was as far in the distance as ever, and that there seemed no prospect of being able to reach even the beginning, Halbert was by no means discontented; this genial country life was natural to him: he only wanted something to do; and after a considerable agitation he attained to that. Mossgray graciously permitted himself to be made an experimental farmer, and with great glee Halbert plunged into the desired labour.

“Nae fears,” said the sagacious Saunders Delvie, Mossgray’s man, as Mrs Mense expressed her fears to him, that the strength of “the young Laird” might be taxed too greatly; “it’s naething but a maggot. I’ll just gie him till he wearies; when he’s dune out, he can aye rest when he likes, and that’s mair than ye can say for mony a hard-working man. Gie him the length o’ his tether; _he’ll_ tire sooner than anybody else.”

“Ay, but Mr Halbert’s an active lad,” said the housekeeper; “and so was his father before him; if the tane had but been as innocent as the tither; but ane canna mend what’s past.”

A frown came darkly over the face of Mossgray’s man.

“Ye say weel, neighbour; but an folk canna mend their ill deeds they maun tak the penalty. If it’s but in this world it’s weel for themsels, and if it’s in another pairt than this, it’s a’ the mair just and righteous.”

“Oh, Saunders Delvie,” exclaimed Janet Mense, “ye’re a hard man!”

“Maister Charlie Graeme did sair ill to this house,” said Mrs Mense emphatically, “and meant mair than he could do--but for a’ that, look at the Laird, Saunders, and learn by him. Is he no making this lad like a son o’ Mossgray? is he no doing a’ that the kindest father could do for him? but no to speak o’ the Laird, Saunders, there’s mysel. I likit Miss Lucy Murray weel, and there was never ane but likit Mr Adam; and baith o’ them did that lad’s faither do his warst to bring to misery. I am a lone woman, and have nae bairns o’ my ain; but the time my heart was warmest and fullest, thae young folk--though they were gentles, and no like me, were gaun and coming about the house, and I thought mair o’ them than ever I did o’ mysel. But for a’ the ill he did to them--Saunders, I mind that we need mercy oursels every day, and I can say, Charlie Graeme, I forgive ye.”

“Ay,” said Saunders Delvie sternly, “but he didna dishonour the honest name that your forbears and you had laboured in puirtith and hard toil to keep free of offence in the sight of God and man. He wasna that near to you, that his shame should be yours to bear, the very time that your ain misery for his sin was rugging at your heart; ye dinna ken--and I seek nocht but to bear my ain burden out of the sicht of man.”

His bushy gray eyebrows twitched--his face was moved; this man too had a history.

“Eh, but Saunders, man!” continued the good old housekeeper with some timidity, “it’s no like you--I’m meaning it’s no like what we should do to be so hard on the puir lad; mind how young he was; and for a’ that he did ance ill, mind that he’s your ain.”

“I mind,” said Saunders emphatically, while a sudden yearning seemed to contend on his harsh face with the stern condemnation of justice; “woman, ye dinna ken! If he had been less to me--ay, if he _was_ less to me now, think ye I wad have done what I have done. It’s nae use speaking; do I no see the tears in the wife’s auld e’en morning and nicht? do I no ken wha she’s aye thinking o’ and yearning ower like a weak woman as she is? but I say he shall never cross again the door of the honest house he has brought shame upon--never!”

There was a stern fire in the old man’s eye, and he went hastily out to his work as if he felt ashamed of having been drawn into this revelation of his household grief. He was, naturally, a man with very strong and passionate feelings, and one of those harsh and powerful minds, which at any cost of misery to themselves will cling to their severe and abstract conceptions of justice. His only child, a youth of some promise in their humble sphere, had fallen a few years before into the brutalizing practices of rural vice. He had formed discreditable connections, involved himself in the worst company that Fendie could afford, and to crown all his offences, had finally, in a moment of temptation, stolen some trifling sum from his master. Saunders and his wife were in the sober meridian of life when they married, and this lad Peter was the son of their old age, the secret idol of the old man’s vehement heart. But no one knew the might of love which the somewhat stern father lavished upon the son; and when his criminal folly came to its climax, the mother, the neighbours, the injured master himself, stood aside with awe while Saunders repudiated and disowned the unhappy culprit. _They_ called him harsh and cruel; but the guilty youth himself, even while he trembled under his father’s sentence, discovered for the first time the strong love which in its agony banished him from its home and presence. A kindred strength awoke in the son’s undisciplined spirit. Seeing how bitterly the hopes set on his head had been disappointed, in bitter repentance he turned from the closed door, eager to leave the place of his early sins, and in some strange unknown country to conquer, by the help of God, himself and his fate. For two long years now he had been absent--where his father did not know, nor would inquire; and still in the bitterness of the strong love which burned within him, the old man repudiated the prodigal.

Mossgray and his ward were together in the garden: Saunders hastily avoided them, and went to work alone, where no one could see the stern swelling of his heart. It was the great fault of Saunders’ own class, that they were obtuse to notice and slow to punish those sins of youth, so fatal to all goodness, which the world is content to call follies. Saunders himself was harshly pure and just; he thought it was something of this moral blindness, so common among his humble neighbours, which made Mossgray receive so kindly the son of Charlie Graeme.

Lilias was leaning on her guardian’s arm; they were going to the water-side.

“Halbert will make us rich, Lilias,” said Mossgray; “I am glad the lad likes work; but I fancy we must come to some decision about him; let me hear what you advise.”

“You suffered me to speak of Halbert once before, Mossgray,” said Lilias, “while he was as much a stranger to you as to me.”

“Yes, I remember I did,” said the old man, smiling, “and you were very foolishly generous as youthful people are. Must I fall back on my memory for the arguments you used then, Lilias? have you nothing new to advance: are your opinions still the same?”

“I have nothing new to advance save the good qualities which now you know, Mossgray,” said Lilias, returning the smile. “Halbert himself--so frank and simple and manly; there could be no better representative of the old Graemes.”

The old man shook his head.

“You are a special pleader, Lilias; you want to rouse what family pride may be in me. Well, granting that Halbert is all you say--manly and frank and simple--and he is so: I acknowledge that my old friend Monikie, and the good healthful atmosphere of the North, have done credit to themselves in their pupil--what then? does it follow that Halbert must get my land; must be my heir--my heir--is he like my heir, Lilias?”

“You could not have an heir like yourself, Mossgray,” said Lilias. “I think you must be alone, and have no successor to rival you; for nature does not seem to do it. Nature only makes one in a race here and there who would take up orphans like Halbert and me, and set us in families, under the shelter of his kindness--therefore you will have no heir, Mossgray--none but humanity; and on some other spirit, in some other country, your mantle will fall when you yourself use it no longer; for you will have no heir.”

“Hush, Lilias,” said Mossgray; “shall I have to train you to more philosophical modes of thinking? I did not think you were so heterodox. We must bring Reid and Brown and Dugald Stewart down upon you. Halbert himself has some metaphysics, dogmatical as their parent, Monikie. We shall have a regular breaking of spears, Lilias; though I think your friend Helen and you, on behalf of the poets, might rout the philosophers if you looked well to your weapons. By the by, I like that friend of yours--you suit each other well; and how does it fare with Mr Oswald’s resolution? Has he learned to break it yet with a good grace?”

“I do not hear now, since Hope is not at home to keep me informed,” said Lilias; “but I think he must be melting; only his son is absent, and there is no visible progress. Mr Oswald is an obstinate man, and Helen is proud; I see that there is an evident consciousness both on her side and his; but, Mossgray, you have done William Oswald harm; you have given him a rival.”

“I, Lilias?” said the old man; “is it Halbert? I should regret that.”

“No, it is not Halbert,” said Lilias; “I think Halbert is not eligible at present to be any one’s rival at Fendie: it is Mr Insches, Mossgray. I think your kindness to Helen when they were all with us has encouraged Mr Insches to look over her low degree. It is your fault: if you had not noticed her, he would have given up what incipient admiration he had of poor Helen; but you gave him the countenance he needed.”

“You are severe, Lilias,” said Mossgray; “but I like the lad. He has a young man’s natural weakness on some points, but there is good stuff in him; and who is to be successful--our grave friend William, or his handsome rival? I should think there was some danger. I fancy I must come to the rescue myself, and explain to Mr Oswald, by my own experience, that resolutions were made to be broken. Does that suit Hope’s tactics and yours, Lilias, or are you working more artfully?”

“Hope is my captain; I must wait for further orders,” said Lilias, smiling; “but, Mossgray, this has nothing to do with Halbert.”

“Very true,” said the old man. “I see you can hold to your original premises, Lilias; well, then, what of Halbert?--let us return to our disputation.”

“I think, Mossgray,” said Lilias, gravely, “since you suffer me to think on the subject, that it would be far better for Halbert if you made your decision soon.”

“It is very sensible,” said Mossgray, looking at her with his gracious smile. “I acknowledge that if I did not suffer you to think on the subject--which I fear would be difficult to do--I should lose a good counsellor; but do you know, Lilias, Mrs Mense tells me that matters might be so arranged as to make your inheritance and Halbert’s one;--could that be accomplished, think you?”

It was very evident that Mossgray did not think it could, and the supposition was too harmless to call more than a passing shadow of colour over the pale cheek of his ward.

“No, indeed, Mossgray,” she said, simply; “did I not say that Halbert was not free to be any one’s rival? I mean,” continued Lilias, with a deeper blush as she observed the inference to be drawn from her words, “that Halbert is very faithful to the northern Menie, and that I am Halbert’s very grave and elderly adviser and friend, and must always remain so, did we live under the same roof all our lives.”

Mossgray desired to have his ward’s confidence; he did not smile at her inference nor at her blush; neither did he ask what they meant; the delicate old man felt it was meet that Lilias should be shy of such confidences, even to him.

“Well,” he said, “I will give up that; it would be very desirable no doubt, Lilias, and would solve our problem beautifully. If Halbert and you were good bairns I have no doubt you would adopt this solution for my particular convenience; but if, as you say, Halbert is already in bondage, and you are so wise and old as you tell me you are, there is no more to be said on the subject, and we must think of some other plan. Let me hear your proposal, Lilias.”

Lilias looked up in some surprise.

“Did you think I was Helen Buchanan, Mossgray? No, indeed, I do not make plans. I only do what I am bidden when they please me, and dissent when they do not; but I am no originator, Mossgray--you know I am not.”

Mossgray smiled again.

“Well, Lilias, we shall suppose that I myself form the plan, according to your counsel, and that we make Halbert heir of Mossgray; and now there comes a grave consideration: what am I to do with you, my good Lilias? Will you be content with the little provision I can make for you, independent of these lands? Nay, if you are not like your friend Helen in making plans, I cannot have you resemble her in pride. I speak to you, you know, as if you had been Lilias Graeme; and your future--must I not provide for that?”

“No, Mossgray.” Her head was bent down, but the animated unusual light played about her face like sunshine--her voice was very low, and trembled as with some hidden music. She did not meet the kindly inquiring look which her guardian turned upon her; she only answered--“No, Mossgray.”

“The future is cared for then?” said the gentle old man, in his delicate tenderness. “I must not ask how, Lilias, but I may believe and infer, may I not?--and guess that there is some one labouring under warmer skies for my good child, and hope that he is wise and generous, and worthy of her. Tell him that I too will grow jealous for his honour and good report, though I am not told his name, and that together, you and I, who alone know him here, will bid God speed to his labour:--shall it not be so?”

Lilias could not lift her eyes just then, for the tears’ sake that were under their lids; but when she could, she looked up in simple confidence into the face of her guardian. She did not speak, and they went slowly on, for some time, in silence. Her mind was in a pleasant, grateful tumult; she thought of the time when he to whose labour Mossgray bade God speed should thank the old man for his generous care of the orphan; and over the fair future she looked forth through the sunny haze of hope--the indefinite golden mist which has in it a charm wanting to the clearer landscape--the magic of the unknown.

But as they continued their walk, shy half-sentences fell on the ear of Mossgray--conveying a confidence which he received gladly, though he did not ask it. How the unsettled family, in one of their short sojournings in a great, bustling, commercial town of England, had met this unknown--how he came from an Orcadian island far off in the vexed Northern seas, and in his youthful energy was bound for the golden East--how he did so tenderly regard and honour the mother over whom Lilias still wept tears, because he also had a mother in his solitary home by the sea, and, except this one nearest friend, was alone in the world; but Lilias did not tell Mossgray how her heart throbbed in glad wonder at sight of the ancient portrait, and in sound of the pleasant name in the old house at Murrayshaugh. It was but a fanciful resemblance, and the name was not an unusual one. The pleasure she had in this, she kept as one little secret gladness to herself. It was but a girlish, affectionate fancy; for the son of the far Orcades could have no connection with the old southern family, whose last representatives were wandering on foreign soil, or laid in strange graves. She smiled at herself for setting so great store by the shadowy resemblance of the portrait; it was too small a thing to tell Mossgray.

END OF BOOK II.

BOOK III.

CHANGES.